


had so much time (then there she was)

by elegantstupidity



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Getting Together, Halloween Costumes, Pining, Smut, Trick or Treating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-04 19:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16352570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantstupidity/pseuds/elegantstupidity
Summary: Halloween's never been a great time for Mike. Between the happy families out to trick or treat and the playoffs he's not playing in, there's not a lot going for him.When Ginny Baker shows up on his doorstep, however, he might have to rethink his stance.





	had so much time (then there she was)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [outruntheavalanche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/gifts).



Mike Lawson might live in one of the priciest zip codes in the country—had, in fact, worked his ass (and knees) off to do so—but that didn’t mean that his house was automatically inundated with trick or treaters. Sure, a neighborhood like his, filled with multimillion-dollar houses, would've screamed "Halloween jackpot" to him, but he figured kids and their parents around here had higher standards. It probably said good things about his neighbors that they didn’t particularly want to send their kids to his door. Between the steep driveway and the concrete stairs and the fact that he'd been on the road so often since moving in, Mike couldn't exactly blame them. Hell, he hadn’t even bothered to put out a pumpkin.

He'd still stocked up on king size candy bars, though. Just on the off chance that he could make some kid’s night.

Now that he didn’t have to make playing weight, though, Mike might have to settle for making his own night.  _Well, there's one of the perks of retirement_ , he thought, not a little bitterly; he could afford a couple extra pounds. A few too many peanut butter cups and beer as he wallowed in yet another team's World Series victory wouldn't be an awful way to start.

Before Mike could go to town on the candy and kick this pity party off right, though, the doorbell rang.

Trying to perk up a bit for the trick or treaters (and the parents who might recognize him and ask for a picture), he headed for the door. However, as soon as he’d opened it, his charming grin froze and then fell into pure bewilderment.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, surprise overriding any sense of manners. Mike might've spent the entirety of his adult life with ballplayers, but he wasn't a total animal. 

Typically. 

But typically, Mike hadn't just opened his door to the last person he ever expected to see. Of anyone he could have found on his doorstep, Ginny Baker would be at about the bottom of the list.

The bottom of the list wasn’t anywhere near where he wanted her, of course. He'd stopped denying he was head over heels for her years ago, but Mike figured he’d blown any and every chance he’d had at anything better a long time ago. He couldn't say what he'd done, but he was sure it was something. He always did something.

Anyway, it’d been years since that night on the sidewalk outside Boardner’s. Even if Mike still sometimes dreamed about what it would've been like if Oscar had called even five minutes later, if he'd gotten a chance to cross that line with Ginny, that didn't mean anything now. Because now, Ginny was at the top of her game, and Mike's had already ended. What would she want with him? She could have anyone in the world.

(Then again, that had always been true. It just felt more daunting now that he wasn't guaranteed time with her; there had been plenty of difficulties involved in being Ginny Baker's teammate, but getting to see her every day nearly six months out of the year was not one of them.)

Maybe there'd been some moments over the past few seasons that made him think—made him hope—that something more was in the cards for them, but it was never anything concrete. Just fleeting glances and lingering touches that maybe he read too much into. Plenty of things to make his heart race and his mind swim for hours and days afterward, but nothing that made him sure she actually wanted him.

If anything, Mike was sure there wasn’t anything to hope for. But that was the funny thing about hope. Even when there wasn't a shot in hell at success, hope just went on, oblivious to the odds. 

So, that tiny shred of optimism still reared its head at the first possible chance, such as Ginny showing up at his door, uninvited. Even though it’d been an entire month since he'd last seen her, out at drinks—and his unofficial retirement party—after the last game of the season, and she hadn’t given him any sign then or since that she wanted to shift gears from teammates to something else.

And that was fine, he told himself for the thousandth time, still staring in dumbstruck shock at the pitcher on his doorstep. If she’d changed her mind, moved on, that was fine. Mike wouldn’t push it.

Then again, that resolution might be difficult now that he'd seen her like _this_.

Over the years, Mike had seen Ginny in all sorts of getups—her workout gear and swimsuits and pajamas and evening gowns—but by far, the thing he’d seen her wear most often was her Padres home uniform. He’d seen it bright white for the first home game of April and ground in with mud and eye black and sweat stains, but he’d never seen it look quite this good.

Even partially obscured by her oversized Padres windbreaker, it was easy to see that this costume of hers wasn't any old uniform. She wore the same cap as always, though it sat on top of loose curls spilling over her shoulders. There was the same navy blue lettering stitched onto clean white fabric, and that was where the similarities ended.

Sure, Ginny’s on-field jerseys were much smaller than most of her teammates’, and yes, Mike had had more than his fair share of filthy thoughts about the way she filled them out, but those might as well have existed in an entirely different universe for all they resembled what she was wearing now. None of Ginny’s game unis skimmed this close to her skin, clinging snugly to her every curve. Certainly, she never wore them unbuttoned all the way below the letters, showing off a generous expanse of skin. And, Jesus, her pants. If they’d ever fit that well during a game, Mike never would have been able to keep his hands off her.

He’d have smacked her ass even more often, that was for sure. Maybe even let his touch linger, make her back arch—

“Trick or Treat,” Ginny drawled in response, holding up one of those plastic jack o’ lantern buckets. Rather than candy, though, hers held a bottle of Bulleit bourbon.

“Aren’t you a little old to be out begging strangers for candy?” Mike managed to ask around a dry mouth and drier tongue, even as he stepped aside to let her in.

She glanced at him sidelong as she stepped over the threshold, full, pink lips quirking up to make a dimple appear. That shouldn't have required a steadying breath on his part, but there were a lot of shouldn'ts about Ginny Baker that Mike had gotten used to. “You sure that’s a door you wanna open, Lawson?”

It really wasn’t.

Still, Mike shook his head disapprovingly (not because he needed to shake the tantalizing glimpse he'd gotten of lace trim hugging the swell of her breasts before disappearing into shadow from his mind’s eye) and pointedly didn’t watch Ginny saunter into his house like she owned the place. “What, you couldn’t put a little more effort into your costume?”

However well it fit, dressing up as herself was about as lazy as it got. 

She shrugged out of her jacket, carelessly draping it over one of the stools at the kitchen island, and Mike doubled his efforts not to stare. Or do something even stupider.

Oh, God, he really wanted to do something stupid.

Thankfully, he was a little distracted away from the emerging argument between his brain and his dick by the fact that Ginny didn’t even try to argue the point.

Leaning back against the counter, hands braced on either side of her hips, she dipped her head in acknowledgment. “It was kind of a last minute thing, and I already had this.”

“Sure you did.” Satisfied—or maybe terrified was a better word; sure, he'd fucked up his chance at making Ginny feel for him what he did for her, but he hadn't yet completely nuked their friendship—that Ginny wasn’t going anywhere, that she wasn’t some figment of his imagination, Mike turned away from her and headed into the living room. He'd still have a good view of her from the couch, but distance, as much as he could possibly get, was his friend right now.

Of course, she couldn't do him that one favor, her footsteps echoing after his. 

“You’re not even wearing a costume,” she pointed out, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. “You don’t get to judge."

“I always get to judge." Mike snorted and collapsed on the couch. If he sprawled, legs spread and arms thrown across the backrest, to encourage her to pick a seat elsewhere, then maybe his sense of self-preservation wasn't as shot as he'd always thought. The position did make him grateful for the thick denim of his jeans, which successfully tamed the semi he'd sprouted within moments of realizing what Ginny was wearing. Within moments of realizing Ginny was even here, honestly. "And anyway, why would I put on a costume to sit around at home?"

Ginny fixed him with an exasperated stare, but she didn't make a move to round the coffee table currently separating them, which was for the best. He raised an eyebrow back, and while she didn’t quite throw her hands up in pure annoyance, Mike was pretty sure she wanted to. The thought was enough to make him smirk, which Ginny did not seem to appreciate. Her lips drew together and her eyebrows drew down, pure annoyance radiating off of her. With a decisive  _thud_ , she planted her plastic pumpkin on the table.

“Oh, maybe because you _weren’t_ going to sit around at home,” she said, practically acerbic, “when you know the team's having a Halloween party.”

“The team’s having a 'Bitch About the Postseason' party,” Mike corrected, reaching for the remote before Ginny could see highlights from the Red Sox victory parade playing soundlessly on the TV screen.

Of course, he wasn’t nearly so lucky.

Eyes flicking from the suddenly dark screen to Mike, Ginny somehow made a more dangerous prospect than ever. Even across the coffee table—which wasn’t nearly far enough away for Mike’s comfort, not when she looked so fucking tempting with her arms crossed over her chest and a smirk working its way between her dimples—he could feel the attitude pouring off her in waves.

“And you wanted a solo pity party instead?” she guessed, not unkindly, but a little meaner than Mike expected. If he hadn't already been thrown for about four loops in the past ten minutes, this would've knocked him flat. He didn't exactly hate it, though.

“I wanted,” he sighed, aiming for put-upon while doing everything in his power to keep his ass firmly planted on its couch cushion when nearly every cell in his body was screaming at him to go to her, to drop to his knees at her feet and beg for a chance, “to eat some fucking candy in peace."

“Too bad,” Ginny tossed back, though the snark faded when her gaze tangled up in his. She stared at him, and Mike stared back. Not that he needed to; this image of her would be burned into his brain for the foreseeable future. Finally, she blinked, her mouth setting into a firmer line, one that spoke volumes about her reserves of willpower. “You can do better than pigging out on candy all by yourself, Lawson.”

“Can I?” he cracked, though it didn’t quite hit the right note for an actual joke.

“I believe in you.” Her reply sounded more sincere than she probably meant to. At the very least, Mike suspected that she didn’t mean to punch him right in the gut with just four words. Since she yanked the bottle of bourbon from her jack o’ lantern bucket and demanded, words sliding together as she rushed through them and away from the genuine moment, “Now tell me where to find some glasses for this," he assumed that was the case.

Mike distractedly directed her to the correct cabinet, more focused on stuffing a few empty Reese’s wrappers into the gaps between the couch cushions than making sure she found her way. His kitchen was big, but it wasn't exactly a maze. She'd figure it out. As she did, Ginny rattled on, her words eating up what could have been an awkward, charged silence. She busily filled him in on gossip and all the meetings she’d had since they last talked nearly a month ago, not particularly caring that he wasn't holding up his end of the conversation. 

He was too busy trying to figure out what the hell was going on to even appreciate the view. 

It was as if she didn’t think this, just showing up at his house after weeks of radio silence, was strange. In a way, it wasn't. They'd never quite done this before, hanging out without some other excuse for cover, but it didn't feel as foreign as Mike might have thought. Ginny fit in his house, even without the rest of the team for a buffer or scouting reports to distract. She felt right.

The epiphany barreled straight into his chest, making Mike ache for what could have been. 

He was about to open his mouth and ask her what the hell she was doing to him, but when he lifted his gaze to where she stood at the kitchen island, her back squarely to him, every single thought but one flew out of his mind.

_That is not her jersey._

Well, it was hers, she owned it, but it wasn’t Baker emblazoned in an arc across her shoulders or 43 dominating her back.

No, it was a different name and number taking up space on that finely fitted jersey.

His name and number to be specific.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Mike finally managed to rasp out, his voice nearly failing him. It’d possibly plummeted all the way to the floor along with his stomach.

She twitched, like she wanted to glance back at him, but sheer force of will kept her eyes on the glassware before her. Somehow, Mike managed to gain his feet and cross the short distance between them.

When he spoke again, he was close enough for his breath to stir the loose curls of her hair. 

That was the limit of their contact, though. He hung back from touch her wanting to know for sure what was going on. Still, his hand lifted of its own volition and hovered over the 36 on her back.

"Ginny." Her name was barely a breath, but it felt like it echoed through the otherwise silent house.

She shuddered, had to put her hands down on the counter for balance, but didn’t turn to face him. Maybe that was better. Between the sweet smell of her perfume and the heat radiating off her, Mike could barely keep his thoughts straight. He wouldn't stand a chance if he had to look into her deep brown eyes, too.

What he couldn’t do, despite his best efforts, was keep his hands to himself.

The moment his palm landed against her hip, Ginny let out a sigh, her spine and shoulders going lax enough to make her sway into him. His name was pressed between her back and his chest, and the swell of pride and arousal that accompanied that knowledge probably didn't say good things about his ego. 

Mike didn't care.

“Why’re you wearing my jersey, Gin?” he murmured, giving her hip the lightest tug.

She finally turned but kept her gaze fixed below his chin, dark eyelashes screening her eyes, and her grip firm on the edge of the counter.

“You said you already had this,” Mike said, giving the shirt a tug, just strong enough to make it come partially untucked from her belted waistband and reveal a patch of her bare hip.

Ginny licked her lips and suddenly every last ounce of his attention was on the sweep of her tongue and the slight sheen it left behind. “I did.”

“Something you wear often?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?"

Her eyes finally flicked up to meet his. “It’s the only thing of yours I have."

“You steal my shit all the time.” It was true. God only knew how many of his plaid shirts and hoodies had disappeared into her closet, never to be seen again.

“Borrow,” she corrected, waving him off, impatient. Mike caught her hand, and they both stopped, frozen at their first skin-to-skin contact in too damn long.

Finally, Ginny’s fingers threaded into his. She pulled, and Mike obligingly stepped even closer. Getting to feel the lean line of her thighs against his wasn't exactly a deterrent.

“Maybe," she said, teeth digging into her bottom lip like she was actually worried he would shoot her down, "I wanted something I can keep.”

"Anything," he promised, immediate and reflexive. Mike sincerely hoped she wasn’t still talking about his clothes, but even if she was, he would still mean it. “You can keep it all."

A slow grin spread across Ginny's face, lighting her up and chasing the shadows of doubt away from her eyes. "All of it, huh?"

He rolled his eyes, but managed to press even closer, reveling in the way she sighed and melted into him. "Yeah. You have anything particular in mind?”

Ginny’s laugh warmed Mike from the inside out, though maybe that had more to do with the way she brought their joined hands to a spot low on her back, right over the curve of her ass.

“I’ve got a lot of particulars in mind, Lawson,” she admitted, husky voice almost a purr.

And that was the end of Mike’s self-restraint.

With a grunt and a heave, Mike boosted Ginny up onto the counter, sending their bourbons skittering across the granite. Neither noticed. Not when he immediately crowded into the space between her spread thighs. His hands he kept to her waist and back, not wanting to get too far ahead of himself. Plus, even though he couldn't see it, that was his name and number on her back; he wanted to know exactly what that felt like.

Given the way Ginny automatically wrapped her legs around his hips, though, he figured he wasn’t in too much danger.

“I think I need to hear about some of those particulars,” he said, letting himself stare his fill for what felt like the first time since he’d met her.

Ginny stared back, even as a flush worked its way over her cheeks. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth and said, “What if I show you instead?"

No doubt already knowing his response, her hand slid against his cheek and Ginny leaned up to seal her mouth to Mike’s.

Her lips parted immediately, inviting exploration, which he eagerly accepted. Of course, she didn't just sit there and let him lead. She wouldn't be Ginny if she did. Her tongue tangled with his, slipping past his lips as often as he pressed forward into her. It hardly mattered. His brain was so full of everything about her. The slightly dry rub of her lips, the sounds she couldn't hold in. She tasted better than he could have imagined—and he’d certainly done his best to try.  

Ginny’s blunt nails rasped against his beard as she drew him closer, not that Mike really needed further urging. He had already pulled her right up to the edge of the island, his hips holding her up more than the granite countertop. If that meant his hard cock was perfectly placed in the lee of her thighs, well it wasn’t as if Ginny minded. She was already rocking against him, her tongue lashing desperately against his as muffled, keening sounds escaped her throat.

Part of Mike didn’t hate the idea of getting Ginny off here and now. They’d certainly waited long enough. It didn't seem like it would be too difficult going by the way she was already shuddering in his arms. If he could just move a hand—but which one? From her ass or the back of her neck, already tangled into her hair?—he could give her the friction she so clearly—

Before he could plan much further, the desperate need for oxygen overpowered him. Reluctantly pulling his mouth from hers, Mike sucked in sweet air, his senses returning with every breath.

Even with only a scant few inches between them, it was suddenly much easier to think.

Ginny panted, making smug pride rise up in Mike’s chest. It wasn’t as if he was much better off, though. His own breath was remarkably uneven. He might have just participated in the best makeout session of his life, but that was no reason to lose his cool.

Except, Mike had zero interest in maintaining his cool if it meant Ginny would keep looking up at him like  _that_.

Her eyes were hooded and her cheeks flushed. The soft, bouncy curls she'd walked into his house with were mussed and tangled. Her chest continued to rise and fall as she heaved in steadying breaths, straining the buttons of her jersey. Leaning back on one hand, the other still buried in the beard he hadn’t brought himself to get rid of yet, Ginny looked debauched. Not as thoroughly as she could be, but it was a pretty good start.

“That one of your particulars?” Mike asked, heroically dredging up the details of their conversation from beneath the haze of Ginny’s taste and the way her eyes had gone as dark as the night outside.

“Here’s another."

Her fingers fell from his jaw. Mike would have been more put out about it, but since they went straight to the buttons of her jersey, he figured he’d let it slide.

Because if Ginny Baker looked good wearing his jersey, then God damn if she didn’t look even better taking it off.

With every button that slipped from its hole, Mike’s dick continued to stir and lengthen until he was sure it would burst its way out of his jeans if Ginny kept going. Luckily, she was already on the last one, leaving the jersey to hang from her shoulders and frame the navy lace bra Mike had caught a glimpse of earlier in the evening.

It wasn’t until her hands dropped lower, though, going to the belt buckle just below her belly button, that Mike leapt to action.

Rather than let Ginny unwind her legs from his hips to shed her pants, Mike scooped her up for the second time.

He might fuck up his back, but that was a problem for later. Preferably after he’d removed every last speck of clothing from Ginny’s body himself and committed every last inch of it to memory.

Ginny, however, disagreed. Laughing, she demanded that he put her down. “Where are we going? I can walk, Mike!"

“So can I,” he retorted, though his feet steered him away from the stairs and his waiting bedroom. His knees might not be so shot that he couldn’t throw Ginny around a little, show that he might be retired but he wasn't some fragile old timer, but it would be pretty embarrassing to have one give out on him. He’d never live the jokes down. So, Mike headed for his massive couch instead. 

Ginny, after all, wasn’t the only one with a few particulars in mind.

He didn’t quite drop her on the cushions, but she still gave a pleasing bounce and a breathless giggle when she landed.

Much as he wanted to, Mike didn’t let himself drink in the sight of her, flushed and sprawled headily across the place he’d imagined her countless times, dark skin and hair contrasting so strikingly with the cream of his couch. Instead, he planted a knee on the cushion, a hand beside her head, and leaned down to loom over her. Ginny watched him come with half-lidded eyes and parted lips.

Deftly unbuckling her belt and taking care of the fly beneath, Mike rumbled, “Tell me what you want, Ginny.”

She hummed, like she actually had to think it over, but it wasn’t until his fingers delved into her open waistband and coasted over her invitingly damp panties—dark lace to match her bra—that Ginny gasped out, “Everything.”

Well. That definitely worked for Mike.

By unspoken agreement, they divested Ginny of all her clothes and Mike of most of his. He was sad to see the Lawson jersey go—she’d tease him mercilessly for it later, but he was definitely going to have to fuck her while she wore his name proudly displayed on her back, make her scream it for good measure—but since its departure left miles and miles of smooth, bare skin its wake, it wasn’t such a sacrifice.

The jersey left his mind altogether the first time Ginny wrapped her newly bare legs around his, tight enough to make him collapse against her and leaving only the thin material of his boxers to separate them.

Ginny whined, her hips canting against his in search of release. If she wasn’t careful, that was exactly what she would get; while he had no problem with Ginny getting off as often and as much as she wanted, he wasn’t about to blow his own load in his shorts. Managing to relinquish his two-handed exploration of her perfect breasts—his mouth would gladly fill in—Mike wedged one hand between them. He promised himself that he was going to get his mouth on her soon, but since he couldn't possibly foresee a future in which he got a taste of Ginny Baker's pussy and then didn't spend the rest of his night with his face buried between her thighs, he figured it could wait. Plus, it wasn't as if this, the heel of his palm sat firmly on her mound as his fingers spread her pussy open, was any kind of let down.

She was drenched, coating his fingertips on their first pass over her opening, and greedy, doing her best to draw them in on their second. Anyway, Mike wasn’t one to leave a lady hanging—though the idea of working Ginny up into such a lather that she was begging him for more certainly was one he’d have to come back to—he gave her something to work with. Mike pulled back just enough to watch one thick, callused finger disappear into the slick, velvety heat of Ginny's folds. Her responding moan was deeply gratifying, echoing right into Mike’s brain and burrowing there for him to replay forever.

Though, hopefully, he wouldn’t have to rely on his memory to hear that sound any time he wanted.

Sure enough, it wasn’t that hard to get Ginny to moan and whine and sigh; as he worked his fingers into her, she was not shy about letting him know exactly what she wanted.

“Right there,” she gasped as the pads of his fingers curled against the front wall of her pussy, no doubt hitting her G-spot. Her breasts heaved, abs clenching, and her head tossed, but she could still demand, “Mike, don’t stop.”

He didn’t quite laugh at the idea of stopping before he’d felt Ginny fall apart as she rode his hand, but it was a close call. Instead, Mike leaned back in so he could loom over her, feel the stiff pebbles of her nipples brush against his chest as her back arched off the couch. Right into her ear, he growled, “You getting close, Gin? Getting ready to take my cock?”

She keened, high and breathy, as he continued to murmur every filthy thought about her that had ever crossed his mind. He had quite a bit to share. Ginny scrabbled for a grip on his shoulders, his arms, his side, anything she could get a hold of and sink her nails into as Mike began to grind the heel of his palm against her clit, a counterpoint to the rhythm of his fingers. It wasn’t until he gave up words and started running his mouth over her skin—the thrumming pulse point in her neck, the dip of her collarbone, the heavy underside of a breast—that she tensed all over. The lean muscles of her thighs clamped around his hips and the tendons at her throat strained, every lithe line and curve of her body going taut as a bowstring. If Mike weren’t quite so good at this, he would’ve stopped and stared in complete awe as Ginny hurtled straight towards the cliff’s edge of her orgasm.

As it was, he redoubled his efforts, determined to get her off in spectacular fashion.

Mike couldn’t say for sure that Ginny saw fireworks as she gave into her climax—he hoped so, wanted selfishly to be the best she'd ever had—but her eyes were certainly starry when she finally opened them again once it had worked its way through her. The shivering, shuddering walls of her pussy had gone quiet and her breath had mostly returned to normal, but she was still a little dazed when she blinked up at him, dewy and glowing.

Dazed she might be, but that didn’t mean Ginny needed a break. With a deft move, she pushed Mike back until he was sprawled up against the back of the couch, leaving his lap open and waiting. Not for long, of course, since Ginny gathered her naked limbs and climbed aboard without bothering to wait for an invitation.

Mike really didn’t mind. Especially not with the way Ginny rocked sinuously against him, her hands cupping his face as she kissed him for all she was worth.

(It had to be said that she was now worth quite a lot; that contract extension she'd signed last year was no fucking joke.

Then again, Mike had always thought so.)

His own hands roamed more freely: cupping and fondling the perfect globes of her ass and letting his fingertips dip back into the well of her arousal. Mapping the path from her ribs to her waist to see which spots made her shiver. Counting the bumps of her vertebrae. Tangling into the wild curls of her hair and, and, and—

He was jolted from his exploration by Ginny’s own clever, eager fingers working their way into the waistband of his boxers. Somehow, she managed to drag them down his thighs without dislodging herself from his lap, but before Mike could be too impressed, he was distracted.

It was bad enough that he’d already come dangerously close—more than once, if he was being honest—to blowing his load in his boxers. Between the sounds Ginny had made and the rub and press of her body below his, he frankly considered it a miracle that he hadn’t. Mike was not about to let himself get so close to the finish line only to— Well, _finish_ in Ginny’s hand. Not when her warm, wet pussy was just inches away and her hips were still rolling like she couldn’t wait for more. At least, he hoped to God that was where this was going.

So, grabbing hold of her wrist, Mike gently dislodged Ginny’s grip from his cock, even if his hips drove up one last time as her hand came away.

Ginny met his gaze, and the heat spiraling through her eyes was nearly enough for Mike to let her go on. If she wanted to jerk him off that badly, who was he to stop her? But then her hips rocked again, and the slick heat of her cunt brushed against the underside of his dick, and Mike knew that he had to be inside her as quickly as possible. Jesus, why wasn’t he already inside her?

“The condoms,” he managed to grind out, "they’re up—“

Before Mike could finish his sentence, Ginny was twisting in his lap and pawing at the plastic jack o’ lantern she’d abandoned on the coffee table. Fishing inside, it only took her a moment to triumphantly draw out a familiar strip of foil packets.

He laughed, his forehead dipping down to rest on her shoulder, hands clutching at her waist.

“What?” Ginny demanded, defensive and wriggling in his lap.

Mike’s grip on her tightened enough to make her still. If her rough, nearly too tight grip on him had been enough to send him right up to the edge, then he had no chance against the warm, wet glide of her lips. He brushed a fond kiss to her collarbone, light and teasing to make her shiver.

“You came prepared,” he replied, peeking up at her and trying to keep his smirk hidden against her skin.

He wasn’t that successful. Ginny rolled her eyes and tore a condom off of the strip. Efficiently, but still quite possibly the hottest thing Mike had ever seen, she ripped the packet open and rolled the rubber down his shaft, giving him a good stroke and squeeze when she was done.

“Better safe than sorry,” Ginny said, looking him straight in the eye. Mike did his best to look back, but it was hard when her hand was still on his cock and she was utterly, completely naked in his lap. “Plus, I figured if I just waited around for you to make a move—“

“Making a move was always your job.”

One perfectly groomed brow arched up even as Ginny rose on her knees, dragging her breasts against Mike as she went, to hover over his waiting cock. “Really?” she challenged.

Mike nodded because that was all he was capable of with his brain threatening to explode with the proximity of Ginny’s wet folds so, so close to the head of his dick. When she didn’t look satisfied with that as an answer, though, he swallowed and tried to gather up the resolve to string some words together.

“You said you’d decide when we talk about this,” he said, meaning so much more than truly mind-blowing sex he was pretty sure they were about to have. His palms skimmed up her sides and back, cupping around to her shoulder blades in a move that felt too tender for the single-track of his thought processes at the moment. “I was just following your lead.”

Thoughtfully, Ginny pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. It was already swollen and flushed a darker pink than usual, and he resisted the urge to capture it in another kiss as she considered. Her hands on top of his shoulders finally relaxed, and she sank, just enough for the sheathed tip of his cock to brush against her. The contact made her eyelashes flutter and a soft, pleading sound escape her mouth.

When her eyes opened again, he knew he shouldn’t be surprised by the lust and fire there, but it blew Mike away nonetheless.

“How about I give you a new lead to follow?” she offered, reaching between them to hold his cock steady. That would have been more than enough to knock him on his ass, but the filthy grin she gave him, dimples somehow making the effect even more devastating, was just a cheap shot. “If you can keep up, that is."

Without warning, he gave her ass a sharp smack, reveling in the surprised gasp it elicited.

“Wouldn’t worry about _me_ keeping up,” Mike growled, hips jerking up and his cock sliding easily between Ginny’s fingers to part her folds.

Never one to back down from a challenge, determination stole over Ginny’s features. Her hips rolled and in one, fluid movement, she’d taken Mike nearly to the hilt. Since they both released groaning sighs—the stretch, the tightness, the _heat_ —neither took the upper hand. That didn’t remain true for long.

Gathering her long legs beneath her, Ginny wasted no time in setting a steady, agonizing pace. Mike wanted nothing more than to drive his hips up and bury himself inside her again and again, as hard and as fast as she could take, but she wouldn’t be moved. Not when he sealed his lips around a pebbled, brown nipple and laved at it unrelentingly with his tongue or even when he scrubbed his beard against the sensitive skin beneath her breasts. Both set off shudders and ripples deep within the walls of her pussy, but neither were enough to do more than sneak a slight hitch into the rhythmic rolling of her hips. She was going to draw this out and savor every last moment.

Truly, though, Mike couldn’t say he even minded. Ginny could have this round; he was more than happy to be along for the ride. If it all worked out the way he was hoping, he’d take the next.

He was determined, however, to get her off at least once more before he did.

So, one hand cradling her toned, round ass, Mike brought the other to her front. He licked his thumb and settled it right at the apex of Ginny’s thighs, not even an inch from where his dick sank inside her. Mike had never been a man who had to fumble around before locating a woman’s clit, and this was no exception.

Ginny sucked in a harsh breath as he began circling the bundle of nerves, already taut and beginning to peek out from beneath its hood. The muscles in her stomach rippled and her toes curled on top of Mike’s thighs.

“C’mon, Gin,” he urged once it became clear that she’d picked up the pace in earnest, each downward thrust rocking her clit insistently against his hand. Mike used his grip on her ass to help her along. “Wanna feel you come all over my cock.”

She nodded frantically in agreement, her forehead dropping down to his shoulder so she could focus all her energy on chasing her impending climax. Mike’s lips brushed against her temple and cheek, straining for her lips, wanting to taste her cries straight from the source as she came.

He didn’t quite make it, Ginny burying her face in his neck as if she could hide from the overwhelming onslaught of sensation. Her teeth scraped against the tendon in his throat, making Mike curse himself and nearly spill into the condom. He held on long enough to hold her steady so he could drive up with his hips and coax out another round of shivery shocks from her pussy. His thumb was unrelenting on the button of her clit, and sure enough, Ginny cried out once more, the fluttering of her walls strong enough to pull Mike over the edge with her.

He was vaguely aware of Ginny’s mouth pressing against his jaw, his throat, his chin, his lips, but the lightning racing down his spine and the fire roaring out from his stomach to his limbs were too all-consuming for him to pay it much mind. It wasn’t until his hips stopped jerking, desperately burying his dick as far inside Ginny as she could take, that Mike could really enjoy the sensation of a blissed out Ginny Baker sprawled across his chest, boneless and sated. Her breasts still heaved and her fingers had delved into his sweaty hair, her mouth continuing to move languidly against his. He joined her efforts, letting his palms smooth up and down her back and generally encouraging her to remain exactly where she was. 

Until, at least, she gave her hips an experimental rock.

Stars flooded Mike’s vision. He hadn’t yet gone soft, but apparently, he was still too sensitive for another round. Yet, at least.

“Fuck!” he groaned, tearing his mouth away from Ginny’s to pant and try and get himself under control. His fingers had gone hard on her hips, holding her in place, which of course just made her shimmy again and send another shower of sparks across his view. “Baker, I swear to God—“

“What?” she asked, biting her lip in a play at innocence but just succeeding in making Mike’s mind descend further into filth. “You didn’t think we were done, did you?”

If her voice, usually pleasantly smoky, weren’t almost entirely hoarse, Mike would have believed the bravado. But her eyelids were beginning to droop and heaviness was already stealing over her limbs. Soon, she’d be yawning right in his face, and Mike preferred his partners wide awake and perfectly able to tell him exactly how he was blowing their minds, thanks.

So, he took hold of her face and kissed her.

He’d thought a lot about how he’d like to first—it had not escaped Mike’s notice that Ginny had initiated every kiss up to this one—kiss Ginny Baker, but he'd never quite settled on an approach. Would he be harsh and passionate or slow and easy? Maybe it’d come in the midst of celebration, or just one of those quiet moments that always seemed to sneak up on them.

This wasn’t any of those things, but it was real, so that automatically made it better in his book.

“Oh, we’re definitely not done,” he promised once he pulled away, relishing in Ginny’s dazed expression fading into a slow, hopeful grin. “But I need my beauty rest first.”

She snorted but didn’t argue. With a grace that Mike appreciated and envied in almost equal measure, Ginny rose from his lap. He took care of the condom, tying it off and disposing of it in the kitchen garbage can. When he came back, Ginny’d already wrapped his flannel shirt around her shoulders, leaving long, bare legs to peek out from the hem.

Mike raised a brow. “No jersey this time?”

She flushed and looked down at her bare toes. “It served its purpose.”

“Not yet, it hasn’t,” he muttered, mind filled with visions of Ginny in his name, in his number, in his bed.

Ginny laughed—not the raucous, braying sound she made at clubhouse jokes and stupid puns, but something that Mike was immediately sure he’d crave even more—and turned away from him to head for the stairs.

If Mike snapped up the fallen jersey before hurrying after her hypnotically swaying hips, he doubted that she would mind. And anyway, while his night—his entire fucking life, honestly—had already been made, he'd just learned that it paid to keep hoping for more.


End file.
